


Into the Mirror He Flew

by brumblebum



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Apathy, Child Abuse - Neglect, Depression, Eventual Happiness, Finding Friendship, Minor Character Death, More Pairings TBA, Multi, References to Suicide Through Non-Action
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:41:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brumblebum/pseuds/brumblebum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - In a different world, nobody meets anybody and everything goes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrhythmia

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS/WARNINGS IN END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Title from _Lonely Press Play_ by Damon Albarn, slightly modified (I changed "she" to "he").

The water heater broke. A few days ago, maybe—probably longer. Lately he hasn’t been remembering things very well.

As it is, the water is cold. He feels it on the most basic level, submerged as he is, but he doesn’t  _feel_  it. Discontent is as foreign as its counterpart.

He thinks he should fix it. He tells himself he will, once his parents send him more money. (By now he’s replaced his mother’s face with that money. That’s all his parents are, really. Money. Better than being empty space in his chest.)

Speaking of, there’s a bit of burning in his lungs. He opens his eyes and sees a warped ceiling surrounded by bubbles. Oh. This again.

Sometimes he forgets he’s under the water. If his lungs didn’t hurt, he might even stay. Biologically it’s too much of a hassle—his body rebels, and to stay under would mean putting up a fight.

So he breaks through the water and breathes air, but he doesn’t feel relieved, nor is he disappointed. If he did force himself to stay, no one would mind. No one minds either way. He’d call himself a non-entity, but his parents, at least, are encouraged to think of him as something like a pet.

During his grandmother's funeral, he watched them sob. She had asked them to visit a week or so earlier. He wondered if they felt regret, but they left a day after, leaving a note on the counter and some money in an envelope. They were apologetic, but they had important business elsewhere, and their son is a strong boy. Go be with friends, they had written.

Perhaps he is a fish, fed and occasionally noticed, but otherwise left alone. His only friend was buried at the same time as his grandmother.

A loud beeping interrupts his thoughts. He sits a little straighter and looks at the door, a quick burst of anticipation in his gut, a tiny whisper of " _Haru-chan, you'll be late for school_ " in his ears as the beeping intensifies.

His alarm’s going off in the other room. Nothing important. He’s never on time anyway - no one expects him to be - so he sinks back in the water, lips blue and eyes shut.


	2. Uncertainty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late. I have the hardest time writing Rin. but finals are over and a month-long winter break has started! so far my favorite part of uni, tbh.  
> anyway, enjoy!

Standing in front of a classroom is horse shit on the best of days, but right now Rin honestly just wants to ditch class and go home.

He’s been through this process once already. _Hi, I’m a stranger, please feel free to treat me like shit_. The past several years have taught him that people are distrustful as hell when it comes to new kids, especially kids that speak funny, or kids that look different. He certainly fits both criteria.

Even if the teacher seems nice—and she does, for all that her face is familiar—there’s no way to guarantee that the kids aren’t assholes. At least it won’t be like last time. He’s grown too much, has perfected that aura of troublemaker, so people are less inclined to mess with him.

“—Matsuoka-san?” the teacher’s voice interrupts his brooding, and he looks reluctantly at the class. They’re all staring at him expectantly.

Fine. “My name’s Matsuoka Rin. Please take care of me,” he mutters. Nobody says anything welcoming, but that, at least, is protocol for Japan.

“Thank you, Matsuoka-san. You’ll be sitting next to Nanase-san—ah . . .”

“Miho-sensei, he’s not here again,” says a black-haired boy, tall and with a face that screams popular.

For a brief second, the teacher frowns. “I see. Thank you, Yamamoto-san.” She looks at Rin, a smile back on her face. “It’s lucky that you’re sitting next to Yamamoto-san, too. Please go to your desk now, Matsuoka-san.”

This means he doesn’t get the window seat, which would have provided a little more isolation. With a scowl, Rin makes his way through the rows of students, who have lost interest. Maybe that’s a good sign.

Just as he sits down, the students suddenly regain interest—but not in Rin. Instead, their eyes dart over to the door where a boy stands, dark-haired and sluggish in movement. This is probably Nanase, if he remembers the name right. It’s the only empty desk.

“Ah, Nanase-kun . . .” the teacher starts, trailing off and trying to smile. “Welcome. Please take your regular seat.” Her casual tone means this is a regular occurrence, and isn’t it Rin’s luck that he’d be seated by a slacker?

He purposely refrains from staring at the boy, choosing to look out the window—which is a mistake, because the boy moves quietly, for all his sluggishness, and soon the profile of his face is directly in Rin’s line of sight.

Rin makes an attempt to look away, act disinterested, but Nanase’s head moves until their eyes line up. It’s like Rin’s been sucker punched.

Nanase isn’t looking _at_ him. That much is obvious. His eyes are too empty, a blue that borders the line of gray, and Rin _knows_ that this boy has nothing. He knows this because he’s seen the same thing in the mirror a few times. It’s unsettling to see it in another person.

Then the moment breaks, and Nanase turns to stare out the window. Rin tells himself: _It’s not your business. As long as he doesn’t start harassing you, just ignore him._

Even as this goes through his head, however, a gross wave of curiosity runs through him and another voice whispers: _Maybe he’s like you. Maybe he needs someone, just like you do._

_Maybe you can help him since no one helped you_.

—and Rin rejects this, shoves that thought into some lonely corner of his mind, and manages to forget about the broken boy in the seat next to him.

Because how can he fix anyone else when he hasn’t yet fixed himself?


	3. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha why, Makoto, did you break my heart?

The hot topic at today’s lunch is Matsuoka Rin and his interaction with Nanase Haruka.

“They made _eye contact_ ,” a girl whispers to Makoto, who bites the inside of his cheek and looks very intently at his food.

“Maybe this Matsuoka kid is a miracle worker. Or maybe Nanase knows something we don’t. I mean, Matsuoka didn’t even acknowledge Takeshi at all in class.”

“I dunno, I’ve always felt really bad for Nanase-kun. He’s always so sad! If Matsuoka-san breaks him out of his shell, I’ll be happy.”

If it weren’t a hypocritical question, Makoto would ask why, exactly, Ume is so concerned about Haruka. He knows the superficial answer—she thinks his apathy is actually mystery, and mystery is very attractive to girls like Ume.

One day, these girls think, one day I’ll know his secrets and it’ll be romantic and beautiful and perfect.

Makoto bites the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds, but it’s a welcome distraction from the sudden nausea in his stomach. He stabs at a piece of squid, turning it over and over as he thinks, _They’re wrong_.

He has known Haruka since grade school; rather, he has known _of_ Haruka since grade school. Before her illness, Grandmother Nanase had enjoyed sitting outside to watch the sunset. When she was alone, Makoto would go up and say _hello_ , and she’d say _good evening, Makoto-kun_ , because she was kind and always had a ginger cookie ready for him.

Other times, however, Grandmother Nanase would be joined by a tiny little boy, pale and fragile in her lap. _My Haru-chan_ , she had told Makoto. _He’s the best grandson an old woman could ask for_.

Because of this, he never intruded. That was their time and he was only a stranger.

(—but really, it was because his eyes scared you. They were full of something you couldn’t hope to recognize until that man drowned and your goldfish died.)

Still, Grandmother Nanase was a good woman, with a kind face and an even kinder heart. Makoto sometimes wishes he had taken the time to speak with her more. One time he’d seen her playing with Haruka in a park, and he’d _wanted_ to go play, to go and meet her little grandson of whom she was so proud.

He’d watched them for too long, until Grandmother Nanase was ushering Haruka back to their house, away from where Makoto stood bewildered and anxious and, for some strange reason, like he’d just lost something important.

Shortly after that came the day Grandmother Nanase stopped sitting outside. Four days passed until he asked his mother why she didn’t watch the sunset anymore.

  _She’s sick_ , his mother had said. _I made her this—go give it to her, Makoto_.

He tried. He walked up the steps of their house and raised his small hand to knock, biting his lower lip as thoughts of _do it do it do it_ ran through his mind.

When he finally did knock, it was hurried and scared and he was hiding by the time anyone opened the door. He watched with wide eyes and a trembling body as the door swung open and the basket was grabbed.

He’d expected Grandmother Nanase—sick, but on her feet—but instead Haruka stood there with furrowed brows and glossy, bloodshot eyes. He looked even smaller, shoulders drawn in like the world had hurt him, veins blue and bright inside the pale skin of his hands.

_Tachibana_? he had mouthed, and for a split second his eyes had landed where Makoto was hiding. Then he was gone, basket taken and door shut firmly behind him.

Makoto had gone home not realizing he was crying until his father asked him what was wrong.

After that, he’d watched their house. A doctor came twice a week for three years, at first with optimism and at last with resignation. He didn’t see Haruka at school, but he knew he was still there because the baskets his parents sent always disappeared.

The day Haruka came back to school was also the day after Grandmother Nanase’s death. Eight-years-old and with an unsettling personality, his teacher muttered, and then there’d been a class activity.

Makoto had almost gotten the courage to go up to Haruka and say, _Will you be my partner?_

Only the teacher’s _I want you to talk about your role models, all right_? had done something to Haruka.

He’d started crying—softly at first, hardly a tremor in his hands. Then he was suddenly sobbing, hunched over his desk with his fists in his eyes. When the teacher tried to help, he’d lashed out. Everyone heard the snap of cartilage breaking.

_Oba-chan_ , he’d cried, _Oba-chan!_

Over and over until he was escorted out of the room by a nurse. Makoto had sat there, frozen and frightened and he hadn’t known Grandmother Nanase was dead. He was quiet after that, tasting ginger in the back of his throat.

Two weeks later, Haruka had been transferred to a new class. The next time he saw him, Makoto tried to say _Sorry for your loss_ —but Haruka answered him with dead eyes and silence, and Makoto knew he’d lost his chance.

He still carried his mother’s gift baskets over to Haruka’s house, but he never knocked; and he still kept an eye out for Haruka at school, but he never approached him.

Then middle school came, and with it Kisumi and basketball, and he was busy enough that he didn’t _have_ to carry around that constant guilt and sense of responsibility. He was a natural at his sport, and his talent brought him popularity, which followed him to high school.

This year, though—he was placed in Haruka’s class, and those feelings came back and gnawed at him the first few weeks he’d watched Haruka stumble into class, waterlogged and apathetic and done with the world. They’ve faded, of course, like all emotions fade, but with the new arrival—

“What do you think of Rin, Makoto-kun?” Ume asks, interrupting his thoughts.

Makoto shrugs, forcing a grin on his lips. “I’m not sure yet, Ume-chan. He’s still new so I think we should give him some space.

—Matsuoka Rin is not like Haruka, not from what he’s seen. Matsuoka looks angry and bitter; Haruka looks empty. The difference is _have they given up_ , and he thinks they both have in different ways. Matsuoka, however, was able to drag that small, brittle piece of humanity out of Haruka, who hasn’t looked at anyone since grade school.

So maybe, he thinks, Matsuoka is a good guy. He has the opportunity to do what Makoto should have done years ago.

Makoto hopes— _prays_ —that Matsuoka takes that opportunity, because maybe it’ll mean Makoto gets another chance, too.

**Author's Note:**

> POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: references to suicide through non-action - while the character doesn't try to kill himself, he's certainly not trying to avoid killing himself, either.
> 
> POSSIBLE OOC: AU means people act differently. I'll keep them as IC as possible given the angst bucket of circumstances.
> 
> Also, if you guys have better title ideas, please. I need them. My title skills are lacking for this fic.


End file.
